


Constantly

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, BAMF Sherlock, Hiatus, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-The Empty Hearse, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock's Travels, Sherlock-centric, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock have a tenuous relationship at best, but with Sherlock taking down Moriarty's web, they might need each other more than they'd care to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constantly

**Author's Note:**

> Translations at the end.

 

 

Sherlock’s newest pre-paid mobile began to ring, he eyed it suspiciously; surprised he even had reception. He debated whether or not to answer it, sucking in one last lungful of smoke before crushing the cigarette under the heel of his boot.

He wished that the damn thing would stop insisting on making noise, when it finally did, he sat back against a tree stump and stared out into the darkness, the little lantern next to him extremely inadequate against the black. Apart from faint noises from the birds in the distance, it was perfectly still, peaceful even.

He hated every moment of it.

There was not another human being for 20 miles, in every direction, just trees and dirt and rocks. He missed the bustle, the noise and the _data_ of London. Any city would be a more welcome sight right now, a better alternative. Sherlock Holmes didn’t _do_ nature. He was laying low, half a world away from home; literally, and he was bored.

 

The infuriating, pathetic excuse for a phone started trilling at him again, this time he snatched it up and answered, mostly just to shut it up. Not many people had this number.  
A familiar voice reached his ears, if a little garbled;

“I’m sorry, but I think I have the wrong number,” tone apologetic.

“Yes,” he drawled drily, “I’m sure you do.”

He had given the all clear.

It was a pathetic excuse for a code, a bit obvious, and apologetic really didn’t suit his brother, he never could pull it off. Never mind, it would be a different one next time. Still, Mycroft had never been genuinely apologetic in his life.

There was a pause, and then a relieved sigh, how did the bastard manage to sound condescending just by breathing?

“Sherlock, where in god’s name are you? I’ve been trying to contact you for _weeks_ ,” the exasperation was evident, masking an undercurrent of worry. Sherlock admittedly hadn’t bothered to pick up a phone with the next temporary number on their list until very recently.

Sherlock frowned and deliberately did not answer.

“For goodness sake, Sherlock, it’s a secure line. Do you really think that I would contact you and address you by name if I wasn’t absolutely sure that it was safe to do so?”

He supposed that was a reasonable enough argument, already regretting not having hurled the damn phone into the river.

“Do I detect a hint of stress, _brother dear_?” he shot back, earning him another sigh.

“The line is awful,” Mycroft sniffed in distaste, “Where are you?” he repeated, more insistently.

“Australia.”

“ _Australia_?” His brother intoned disapprovingly, “That’s quite a bit out of your way, isn’t it? I do hope you’re not taking an impromptu holiday,” He was only being half sarcastic.

Sherlock’s temper flared at the suggestion that he had forgotten the gravity of what was at stake, it was impossible for him to forget. He stood to lose a great deal more than he could to afford to if this plan did not succeed.

“There was a small sect located in Brisbane, methamphetamine circles, nothing major, but too far under the web’s influence to be ignored. It seemed an appropriate moment to disappear for a while.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, so he was just peeved with Sherlock because he hadn’t been able to contact him. They’d gone much longer than this without hearing a word from one another, so he must have news.

Each time Mycroft called Sherlock hoped that he would speak of John. But Mycroft held to his word consistently; he was only to inform Sherlock if John Watson’s life was directly in danger, anything more would be a distraction.

“You’re still in Brisbane then?” God he was a nosey bugger.

“No.”

“Then what city _are_ you in, Sherlock, don’t be childish,” he was aggravated now, good.

“I’m not.”

Mycroft was silent for a while, seemingly still trying to deal with the idea of Sherlock _in the wilderness_. Sherlock scowled, waiting for him to get to the point.

“I’ve been hearing reports from the US. The two main cells turned on one another quite violently and by now have almost completely eradicated each other.” He nearly sounded impressed, "I haven’t heard anything about any rogue elements, so I assume you cleaned up the leftovers?”

“I was very thorough.” Sherlock confirmed emotionlessly.

 

Mycroft made a concerned little ‘hmm’ noise in the back of his throat; Sherlock let him squirm, so he didn’t like the idea of his baby brother being a ruthless assassin? Well too bad, he hadn’t exactly discouraged him in the first place, and Sherlock would do whatever the situation required him to do, Mycroft knew that.

“What of Europe?” He prompted, he was out of touch, and though he was loathe to admit it, he desperately needed the intel. Hopefully Mycroft wasn’t going to make him jump through hoops to get it when he was going to tell him anyway.

“Ah, well, that’s a little more complex. Western Europe you were very efficient, but you left a god awful mess in Germany, leaving before you were finished,” Mycroft chastised him, so he _was_ going to make this difficult.

“ _I was shot_ , as you well know, you pompous arse,” Sherlock retorted crossly, really not in the mood for their usual back and forth, especially not about this.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied loftily, and Sherlock could hear the sound of him flicking though files in the background.  
“You were fortunate I had that team so close by, what was it? One clean through the bicep, and the other took a sizable chunk out of your left thigh, I believe?” He queried, as if he didn’t know, as if he wasn’t reading it directly from a report in front of him. He just wanted to remind Sherlock that yet again he’d had to wade in and pull him out, that it was just another thing that he owed him for. Mycroft was going to lord this over him for a while.

“Yes. Fortunate,” Sherlock snapped, keen to get the conversation over and done with, but Mycroft wasn’t done.

“To what extent were you able to rehabilitate the leg?” _Damn him_ and his exaggerated concern.

“Fully, aside from some muscle weakness after prolonged use,” Sherlock growled, reluctant to concede the weakness, if he ran too far, it was prone to collapsing at inopportune moments but it was getting better.

He didn’t fill Mycroft in on most of the details, in truth his physical therapy had been a drawn out and agonising hindrance. It was only thanks to his sheer stubborn nature that he had regained the mobility that he had.  
  
Getting back to total fitness after the injury had been almost as hard, he practically had to relearn how to run, but he _could_ run and he supposed that was all that mattered. It had cost him time though, and left him with a rather nasty scar, having had a large portion of the physical mass of his thigh muscle blown away.

 

“Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , are you still there?” his brother’s insufferably nasal voice bringing him back to the present, and, rubbing his leg unconsciously, he grunted an affirmative.

“As I was saying, we still have quite the situation in the east, by my estimate, you have dismantled approximately two thirds of James Moriarty’s…establishment, quick work by the way in Asia. Though may I enquire as to-”

“It’s taken care of,” Sherlock interrupted, anticipating the question, “I made absolute certain of it; Sebastian Moran is no longer a concern.”

He didn’t say that Moran had nearly ‘taken care’ of _him_ during the process, he had the stab wound to prove it, stitched it up himself in fact.

“Excellent, that was India, wasn’t it? That’s where our information last placed him…”

“India.” Sherlock confirmed gruffly, remembering the desperate struggle between them, Moran’s blood staining the beautiful tiger-skin rug. He’d shot the animal himself, apparently, so it had seemed fitting that he die on it.

“You mentioned two thirds,” Sherlock pulled himself out of the memory, “What is the situation regarding the last third?”

“Yes, the individual cells in Eastern Europe seem to be banding together, a large amount of Moriarty’s empire has been dismantled, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. Especially after they saw what you did in the states, turning them against one another like that, and they’re taking counter measures. They are on full alert and will be difficult to infiltrate. They know someone is hunting them now, so we’ve lost the element of surprise,” ‘ _we_ ’, he kept saying ‘ _we_ ’.

“But you have the advantage of being the very last person who they would expect, with that dying business hitting the press.”

Sherlock thought about this new information, it was worse than he’d hoped, but it was probably his own fault; he’d lost some time in South America with the drug trade, but Mycroft (and John) didn’t need to know about that. Besides they still sounded fairly disorganised, he should strike while they were still weak.

Mycroft seemed to sense Sherlock’s intention to tackle the problem head on and made an attempt to distract him,

“How long have you been away, Sherlock?” The question was casual and it seemed innocent enough, but then so does a dog before it bites you.

It was frustrating because Sherlock was well aware that the chances that his brother had the time that he had been travelling written away somewhere, right down to the number of days, was extremely high. But Sherlock honestly wasn’t quite sure of the number himself and the git probably had guessed that.

Sherlock had been so focused on his next move, the next hit; whilst always keeping an eye on the bigger picture, that he hadn’t really had time to keep track. He knew it had been a very long time, he felt like it had been far, far too long, but then; he’d felt that way by the end of the first week.

His silence spoke volumes, however, and his brother continued on, unperturbed;

“One year and eight months next week,” Mycroft informed him, “Do you know…what is the maximum amount of time that an intelligence agent is permitted to spend in the field, in a single operation?”

He didn’t. And he didn’t care, but of course Mycroft was going to tell him regardless.

“It’s six months, Sherlock; just six.” When Sherlock continued to give him no response, he continued with determination;

“What I am trying to say is-”

“I know what you are trying to say, _Mycroft_ ; I don’t want to hear it.” He cut him off.

“And that; is exactly why you must. You have become by far one of the world’s most efficient operatives, and you are much more capable of spending prolonged periods in the field, no one is denying that. But you have limits Sherlock, you have effectively been behind enemy lines for over three times the recommended maximum. That limit exists for a reason.  
Perhaps your little excursion is a good thing –although it sounds ghastly, are those _insects_ I hear? - You need to rest, brother, just for a while.”

Mycroft tried to reason with his somewhat unpredictable sibling.

“You know I can’t do that Mycroft. I need to act whilst they are not yet completely prepared!”

 

Sherlock was tempted to end the call, but then Mycroft, the ever determined pit-bull of a man that he was, went for the jugular;

“And just what use are you to John Watson if you are dead?” His voice not quite as smug as Sherlock would have expected, he sounded tired.

“I already am.” Sherlock had countered softly, before ending the call with a click.

 

~

 

Having a younger brother had only caused a great deal of worry in his life.

Mycroft Holmes wrinkled his nose in displeasure at the Serbian military nonsense that he was currently wearing. It had been years since he had participated in such involved _legwork_ , He made a rubbish spy and always had done, unlike his younger brother who (it made him uncomfortable to admit it) had turned out to be naturally suited for the role.

Sherlock’s brilliant mind, profound memory capacity and deductive reasoning skills placed him in a class of his own (by far beating Mycroft in physical speed, strength and agility), of course, it helped that he was officially and legally dead. No government had to be held accountable for his actions, and he could cross lines that no other agent could, in short; they had plausible deniability, if he got himself into trouble, no one would get caught red handed trying to pull him out.

Mycroft understood that there was no room for error here, of course he did, he understood everything. That being said; it just didn’t sit well with him.  
Sherlock, unlike himself, and indeed James Moriarty, had never had a problem with getting his hands dirty.

His brother was essentially engaged in a one man war against some of the most dangerous international criminals.  
Mycroft didn’t know how many deaths that Sherlock was indirectly responsible for, nor how many he lives he had personally extinguished; he doubted that even Sherlock knew.  
But what Mycroft Holmes did know was that no one comes out of those sorts of experiences the same, not even the world’s only consulting detective.

 

He hadn’t heard from Sherlock since that disturbing phone conversation in Australia and that was just under 4 months ago.

It seemed that after their conversation, Sherlock, as he had always been want to do, had completely disregarded Mycroft’s advice and thrown himself into the task with renewed vigour. Working his way through Russia, The Czech Republic, Poland, Hungry and Croatia in quick succession.

He had no mercy and he took no prisoners, Mycroft had always known that there would be casualties; that wasn’t the problem, he just hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so…well; good at it. Just because it was the way it had to be, didn’t mean that he had to like it.

Sherlock was ferocious, fuelled by his frightening anger. He was angry at Moriarty for forcing him into this predicament in the first place, for forcing his hand, he was angry at Moriarty’s organisation for daring to threaten those he cared about; he was angry with himself for allowing himself to be backed into a corner, and yes, his brother was also probably a little angry with Dr Watson for making him care _so much_.  
Sherlock’s anger made him dangerous, but also increasingly reckless, and from what little intelligence that he could gather; there had been quite a few near misses.

Sherlock had become adept at concealing himself, covering his tracks, making it almost impossible to track the man, even for Mycroft. It was just like Sherlock to make it to the very last target before being captured, he had always been prone to the dramatic. But by the time his people had learnt what had happened, and worked out where Sherlock was being held; 6 weeks had past. It was simply not good enough.

 

It was definitely ill-advised to send someone as important as Mycroft Holmes on a simple extraction mission, but he justified the risk with the argument that Sherlock was a valuable asset, and the fact that god knew what state they would find his brother in, and a (relatively) friendly face could make all the difference in how smoothly the operation ran.  
Besides, it wasn’t like he had to explain himself to anyone.

Mycroft was aware that 6 weeks was an awfully long time for _anyone_ to be held captive, and that the odds of Sherlock being alive were slim to none.

His cover was a high ranking official from a neighbouring sector of the web, higher up in the proverbial food chain. This was an inspection, and it had taken far too long to set this up. His cover was tenuous, this cell was quite isolated, yes, and as a result had remained ignorant to the havoc being wreaked around the rest of the ‘web’ (as Sherlock referred to it). This was fortunate for Mycroft, as the organisation that he was representing had been obliterated by a very unfortunate _‘gas leak’_ eight weeks ago.

The specialty here was the manufacture of explosives, not unlike those that were once strapped to the chest of Dr Watson in a London swimming pool.

 

Mycroft allowed the clueless idiots to continue to drone at him self-importantly, only half listening, concerned about his hastily acquired accent, as they marched through the compound.

One man began to boast about the capture of a suspected Croatian spy in their midst, one who had an unusual ability to be steadfast, he had been able to withstand intense interrogation. Sherlock was alive then, and they had not discovered his true identity, there was that at least.

Mycroft easily convinced them that it was their idea to invite him to observe a session of interrogation. How these imbeciles managed to function from day to day was beyond him.

 

A young guard escorted him to a basement room within a stone building on the outskirts of the compound. Even in his military great-coat, Mycroft felt the cold of the frigid air.

The jailer greeted him, and Mycroft sat himself down, forcing his face to remain impassive despite the true horror that he felt.

His brother, and it _was_ his brother, (although he was barely recognisable) was hanging, chained into a severe stress position by both wrists, wearing only a pair of filthy trousers. It had been a very long time since Mycroft had laid eyes on him, and this was quite possibly the worst way that he could think of for them to be reunited.

Mycroft’s eyes flickered over Sherlock, assessing him and cataloguing his injuries; open fracture to his right humerus (recent), multiple broken fingers, toes and certainly ribs; fractured right collarbone and soon to be at least one dislocated shoulder if he were allowed to remain in this position. Mycroft frowned as he laid eyes on what he recognised to be equipment necessary for waterboarding and a car battery abandoned in the corner. They had be thorough, this was worse than he’d thought.

The interrogator began to ‘question’ his brother, and Mycroft fought the impulse to wince as fists made contact with a sickening crunch.

 

As much as Mycroft would like to crush the trachea of his brother’s assailant with his bare hands, logically he knew he had no hope in overwhelming the man in this situation. His stomach rolled with nausea, and he told himself it was just the smell, but he was unsure how much longer he could simple sit by and watch.

What concerned him most was the state of Sherlock’s back, which had been cut to ribbons of flesh by knife and whip. Some parts were beginning to heal, others still open wounds, covering his frail form from the waistband up. A messy chemical burn covered a proportion of his left shoulder-blade and along with many of the cuts on his back, looked badly infected. He was going to be difficult to move without doing more damage.

 

The thug had just finished shouting at a barely conscious and trembling Sherlock Holmes, something in crude Serbian that Mycroft wasn’t paying attention to. Sherlock spat blood –add possible internal bleeding to the list- and rasped something timidly in reply. The man laughed sadistically and lifted a length of pipe;

“Не верујем у духове, мој пријатељ”

This could not be allowed to continue Mycroft decided, his cover be damned, the group had clearly given up on mining information from their prisoner, the questions half-hearted and far between; he was putting on a show for Mycroft’s sake. They had kept him alive for 6 weeks, they would have had to have been careful, using methods that implemented maximum pain for minimum permanent damage but the more serious injuries had been inflicted recently. Now that they had decided they would learn nothing of use from him, the violence had begun to escalate and they intended to kill him. Slowly.

He needed to find a way to get the man out of the room so he could secure Sherlock and signal the strike team. Thankfully, Sherlock was aware enough, and still had enough of a sense of self-preservation (astonishingly) to take the initiative himself, and his deductions were effective.

At long last, that pathetic excuse for a human being was gone, and he would never make it out of this facility alive.

 

He approached his brother warily; it was a very bad sign that Sherlock was not able to recognise his own brother’s presence in the room. He laid a tender hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, desperately needing Sherlock to understand who he was, that he meant him no harm and that he was finally safe. For his own peace of mind, if nothing else.  
But Sherlock jerked away from his kindness violently, trying to get away from his hand as much as he was able. Sherlock was alarmed by what he perceived to be a drastic, and disturbing change of tactics, (realising the chilling assumption that Sherlock had come to, he snatched his hand back as if it were burnt) it wasn’t even a foolish jump, given the circumstances.  
Sherlock snarled at him, in Serbian much more fluent than his own;

“Опет Додирни ме и ја ћу вас ваде утробу где стојите.”

“Sherlock,” he ignored the threat, trying to reach the logical side of the wild and half-aware man in front of him, but perhaps that had not been a wise move either, as Sherlock froze upon hearing his real name, believing his cover had finally been blown, thus endangering John’s life.

Mycroft needed to get through to him urgently, before he shut down entirely. He needed something that would convince Sherlock that it was Mycroft that he was talking to, that he was safe.

“ _William_ , look at me,” he demanded sharply, counting on the fact that the shock of hearing a name that he had not gone by in many years, that only a select few would even know to call him, would make him concentrate. Sherlock’s head snapped up, and his eyes were as wide as saucers, but it was strange, they weren’t focusing normally.

“My?” Sherlock whispered in disbelief, Mycroft had not heard that that particular moniker in just over 20 years, which gave him pause.

But then he was gripped by the realisation that Sherlock really _could not see him_.

“Mycroft?” He repeated, more anxiously, almost pleading. He was staring out before him, searching for his brother.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m right here.”

 

From what Mycroft could gather; he seemed to be able to make out vague shapes as well as light and dark, which were all reassuring signs. Lack of oxygen to the brain and the visual cortex (caused by blood loss), hypothermia or head trauma could all individually cause temporary blindness, and Sherlock was very likely suffering from all three.

Mycroft repeatedly apologised under his breath, wincing as he released Sherlock from his chains, being forced to wrap his arms around his torso to lower him to the floor, aggravating his wounds and unintentionally causing Sherlock immense pain. He sat, half propped against the wall, in a pool of his own sweat, blood, vomit, and possibly urine, panting from exertion. Mycroft was rubbing the circulation back into Sherlock’s left arm vigorously, whilst eyeing the right; it needed to be set immediately. Coupled with his other injuries, it was a small miracle that he hadn’t already bled to death, perhaps the cold had actually helped to keep him alive.

Mycroft hurriedly wrapped him in the coat, Sherlock’s lips were a frightening shade of blue and it was possible that frostbite was going to be a problem too, in addition to the already established hypothermia; surely his feet shouldn’t be that colour.

He glanced down at his own hands and was startled when they were slick with half-coagulated blood. His brother's blood. He was very nearly sick.

He forced himself to look his brother in the eye as he explained the rest of the plan, not that Sherlock could see him especially well. _What if he never regained his sight?_

Sherlock hadn’t paid the slightest attention to anything he’d said; he was too busy fighting to remain conscious.

Sherlock had then cautiously touched and prodded Mycroft’s face and he only just managed not to pull away in surprise. Sherlock was trying to _see_. Once his clumsy fingers had confirmed that Mycroft really was who he said he was, Sherlock muttered, mostly to himself;

“Please let this be real,” and then after a moment;

“What do _you_ think, John?”

 

Mycroft’s heart stuttered for a second in his chest, but he didn’t know why he was surprised, he had, after all, been tortured for six weeks and he was evidently not okay.

Of course he wasn’t.

Mycroft should have been prepared for the eventuality that Sherlock’s mental state would be less-than-ideal. He hadn’t though; he _had not_ been prepared to see Sherlock like this at all.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft probed, very gently, hesistant to say anything lest he make it worse, “John is not here, he’s safe. He's at home in London.”

This was apparently very amusing as Sherlock began to laugh shrilly; completely hysterical. Mycroft could do nothing but sit back, horrified.

“I know,” Sherlock managed to gasp out. All this movement must be inflicting considerably more pain upon the detective, but it was apparent that he could not stop, and Mycroft had _no idea_ how to handle this. He signalled the strike team to come and get them. Quickly.

“I know…I know he’s… not, real.” Well thank goodness for that.

“ _But he was here anyway_.” In a very strange way, Mycroft was glad that he hadn’t been entirely alone, perhaps the hallucination had given Sherlock just enough strength to hold on until they’d arrived.

 

Sherlock suddenly stopped that horrible laughing with a start, becoming deadly serious, and more than a little frightened. A mangled hand stretched out to grip Mycroft’s sleeve. He didn’t say anything, but then, he didn’t need to, as Mycroft looked into Sherlock’s devastatingly unseeing eyes, Mycroft saw that he was at least partially aware of what was happening to his mind, he was so very, very afraid. Sherlock was scared that he was losing his mind and it was entirely possible that he was.

Mycroft did the only thing he could, he pulled Sherlock to him, cradling him with his head tucked under his big brother’s chin, as Mycroft had done when he was very, very small.

He whispered comforts into his disastrous hair, and held him close as they waited for his team to retrieve them.

 

He had to believe that Sherlock would recover from this. He was a fighter; resilient, if anyone could survive this it was his brother.

Despite how detached he appeared, Mycroft Holmes knew. He’d always known, from the very first time he laid eyes upon his baby brother. He knew that the loss of Sherlock Holmes would break his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Rough translations:
> 
> Не верујем у духове , мој пријатељ - I do not believe in ghosts , my friend
> 
> Опет Додирни ме и ја ћу вас ваде утробу где стојите - Touch me again and I will disembowel you where you stand


End file.
